


Rip Away My Flesh and Bone

by Prius



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Feelings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prius/pseuds/Prius
Summary: Eventually you get tired.Running from your past and running from your pursuers- eventually you just can’t anymore.





	Rip Away My Flesh and Bone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reupload- originally made around July 4th. Second chapter to follow, a third if the reception is good enough.

Eventually you get tired. 

Running from your past and running from your pursuers- eventually you just  _ can’t  _ anymore. 

Soldier: 76 can’t muster up the will to move.

He should be fleeing; bouncing from rooftop to rooftop, silent as a ghost, leaving the bloodhounds without a scent to follow. He should be stealthing away, quiet as a whisper, and securing the supplies he needs to escape Uruguay from the cache he left so long ago. 

He doesn’t move. 

His rational mind knows he should; Soldier: 76 should be gone. He still has work to do, justice to dish, sins to atone for. If he dies here, alone and disgraced, it’s over. 

He stays wedged in the corner of the warehouse, flanked by two rotting wooden crates. His oil lamp, the only lighting in the dim place, flickers and sputters. With a single breath he could snuff its existence; it’s strange how fragile it is, how tenuously it clings to life. 

He’s not thinking straight and he knows it, but weariness seeps into his very bones and he stays, pulse rifle in his lap, chin tucked to his chest. He’s on the verge of falling asleep, even though he can hear the pounding footsteps of the men searching for him. His heart is slow, breathing even and steady. 

He’s so  _ tired.  _

He makes a stray glance for his hip holster, where his pistol lures him. It’s loaded with a full clip, one bullet always reserved for himself. 

If Talon is going to draw it out, he’d rather end it himself.

It’s weird, how arbitrary this decision is. 

_ I want to die here,  _ then he plants his ass down on the ground and waits for it. 

He doesn’t ponder the existential. It’s better that way. If there’s a hell, he’s going there. If there’s nothing, then it’s the rest he so desperately desires. 

Soldier: 76 closes his eyes and waits. 

Heavy footfalls get closer. The pulse rifle is weighty, anticipatory, in his lap. He keeps his hands loosely at his sides. Makes no move to fight and shoot, because he’s going to  _ die  _ here, goddamnit, he wants to be  _ done  _ already. 

“Jack,” A metallic growl scrapes from somewhere nearby. That convinces his heart to jump, his eyes to snap open. 

Reaper. Reyes. The two names muddle together in a confusing blur.

His traitorous body screams at him to fight back; to pick up the pulse rifle, put as many rounds as he can into his  _ old friend.  _

“Gabriel,” He says. His voice is hoarse, run ragged. He’s so tired. 

“This is what’s become of you, huh?”

The surroundings aren’t great. Rat shit and cat piss and garbage, rotting wood and leaky ceilings, dilapidated walls that’d break inward with the slightest application of force. 

“Guess so.”

There’s a tenuous pause. Gabriel is supposed to kill him now, but his arms are lowered and his gaze is curious rather than threatening.

“Fight,” He demands. 

“No,” Jack says. He takes a visceral kind of pleasure in denying Gabriel a real fight; he knows what the Reaper is after, and he won’t get it. He wants hot blood and grappling arms, raking nails and gunsmoke, panicked breaths and the terrified look on Jack’s face when he realizes he  _ can’t beat him.  _

Jack wants to give up before any of it happens. 

“Fight,” Gabriel draws a step closer, voice angry. 

“No,” Jack repeats. 

A foot makes solid contact with his ribs; metal boots, solid force. The air is punched out of Jack’s lungs and some of the fog of exhaustion is cleared, like lightning zipping up his spine. The pain hits a second later, solid and weighty; the pain he can handle, but his vision swims as he tries to gulp air into his insubordinate lungs. 

“Fight me!” Gabriel spits. 

“No. I’m done.” 

“Jack,” Gabriel hisses in that way he does when one of their agents is acting stupid; like a master scolding their dog for shitting on the rug. 

Gabriel kicks the pulse rifle off of Jack’s lap with his foot, and it skitters deeper into the darkness of warehouse, probably to never be seen again. Jack looks up at him, chin raised, reaching for confidence and defiance he doesn’t have. His eyes are raw and achy, begging to be rubbed at or closed; he wants to sleep. 

Gabriel gets down on one knee so they’re visor-to-mask; one of his hands moves up to Jack’s visor, silver-tipped claws digging into the grey exterior to try and rip it off. 

“There’s a latch.” Jack tells him bluntly. Maybe it’ll shepherd his death along a little faster. 

There’s a soft little click, and the visor is torn away. That, too, is flung into the warehouse, far out of Jack’s reach.

He doesn’t care and he should. He should definitely, definitely care, but he doesn’t. 

Gabriel studies his face for a second; there’s a whispered oath that doesn’t have the same reverberation as his normal speaking voice. A taloned claw traces Jack’s eye socket, and he can’t help the shivers. 

“How long since you slept?” A strange thing for his enemy to be asking. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

Gabriel concedes to that and doesn’t continue questioning him. The tip of his claw runs down from the rim of his eye to his cheek, like a particularly pointy caress. Jack resists the urge to swat at him, to move, to fight. He’s done fighting. 

“You’re not going to stop me if I hurt you,” Gabriel says. It’s disappointed. He really  _ had  _ been thirsting for a fight. 

It wasn’t a question and Jack doesn’t give an answer. 

Gabriel’s hand withdraws from Jack’s cheekbone and goes to his jacket; pulls down the zipper. There’s a jet-black t-shirt woven with a layer of kevlar underneath. Gabriel’s claws are worthless against it; he runs his nails down Jack’s shirt and they show no sign of tear.

Gabriel produces an annoyed grunt- his hands move lower. One dives under the shirt, to touch Jack’s stomach.

He shivers without meaning to. Gabriel’s hands are cold. 

He wants to ask  _ why,  _ but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t want to talk, the same way he doesn’t want to get up and run away. 

His hands move up further, to the plane of Jack’s pectoral. The flat of his thumb rolls against Jack’s nipple, coaxing it to stiffness. Jack twitches, makes a low sound in the back of his throat without meaning to. Gabriel chuckles, indulgent, and Jack realizes what his game is. 

He’s trying to coax Jack to fight. He’s testing boundaries- how much violation can Jack take before he snaps? 

Jack shivers, feeling sharper than he had in days. This alertness, this  _ fear,  _ was what it was like  _ before  _ he’d decided he was going to die tonight, and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

Reaper withdraws his hands and Jack slumps; he hadn’t even realized he’d been tensing up. 

The gauntlet on Reaper’s left hand dissipates like mist in sunshine; it wisps away and leaves behind Gabriel’s bare hand. Greyer than he remembers, veinier, but the knotted scars and the whitened splotch on his knuckle from a chemical burn a decade ago jolts Jack out of whatever hazy reverie he’d been in. Like a nightmare he’d suddenly awoken from, like standing on the edge of a cliff and suddenly realizing just how far you could fall. 

Warm fingers rub his nipple, sensitive bud between calloused pads, pulling and pinching. He blindly shoves Gabriel off, panic clawing at his throat-  _ no, no, no, no-  _

“Yes!” Gabriel spits, triumphant. He lunges back at Jack, swinging a punch. It skims Jack’s jaw,  _ hurts  _ for a second. Jack throws himself in another direction, rolling; he’s on all fours, then on his feet, in a half second.

Where the fuck did the pulse rifle go? Where had it gone?

“That’s the piece of shit I know!” Gabriel snarls delightedly from behind him. “Unflappable little blond bastard, you’d never just  _ give up and die-”  _

He can’t see in the dark without the visor, and he left the oil lamp on the crates back there.

He’ll have to settle for escaping with his life rather than with his gear. There’s a broken window up on a catwalk, and a few crates that should be tall enough for a jumping off point-

Claws scissor the nape of his neck and catch in his kevlar shirt. He produces a horrible little  _ glurk  _ as his own clothes choke him, and he’s  _ thrown  _ to the ground. Gabriel is on top of him in less than half a second, pinning his wrists. Jack attempts to throw his knee into Gabriel’s belly, but he avoids it.

One sharp jerking motion has Jack on his stomach, air crushed from his lungs. Whilst he’s gasping for breath, he realizes that Gabriel’s working at binding his wrists. Handcuffs- Gabriel should know he can break these, he’s been through SEP, he used to show off this trick at parties- but when he jerks his wrists, the cuffs don’t snap like he’s used to them doing.

“Like ‘em? They were made just for you.” Gabriel puffs.

Handcuffs are typically made out of steel and aluminum; they must be made of a stronger alloy, something he can’t bend, something he can’t break. 

Gabriel plants his knee on Jack’s back, metal knee guard digging into an irritating spot at his spine. Jack reflexively spits a threat; Gabriel gives him a sardonic pet on the head, like a dog. 

“I thought about what I’d do if we met next.” He says. “Thought about it for years. You can’t say you didn’t have this coming.” 

Jack says nothing; he jerks at the handcuffs. Metal clinks on metal. They don’t budge.

Gabriel stops his monologue; either he didn’t have more prepared or he realizes it’s wasted on Jack. 

There’s nothing loving or tender about the way he undoes Jack’s belt. Nothing sweet or pure about how he pushes Jack’s pants down to his thighs; he pulls insistently at Jack to get him on his knees, ass in the air with chest and chin to the cold ground. 

“You’re  _ sick,  _ Reyes.” He says. 

“I’m surprised you even noticed I was here,” Gabriel barks back nastily. “Aren’t you used to sweeping all your problems under the rug?  _ Ignoring  _ them until they bubble up and  _ explode?”  _

“Kill me,” Jack hisses through his teeth. Gabriel ignores him, spitefully.

“Huh. You know, you were being the UN’s fuckpuppet so hard I’m surprised that this-” 

There’s a punctuated slap to his ass with Gabriel’s hand. Jack jolts with a startled hiss. 

“- doesn’t look like a fucking wind tunnel.” 

The boxers are the next to go; his ass is exposed to the cool night air. His cock hangs limply between his thighs and his wilt doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“I guess I should’ve figured,” There’s something nasty in Gabriel’s voice and touch when his forefinger flicks across the spongy head of Jack’s dick. Jack makes a broken gasp, wishing he could’ve clawed back the sound and kept it in his chest, but Gabriel rewards the noise by wrapping his fingers around Jack’s cock, thumb positioned near his slit. “Can’t get it up unless you’re servicing five UN pencil pushers at once, huh?” 

He goes slow. Jack’s not sure if that’s a mercy or a punishment. 

The strokes are smooth, gentle; he rubs one of Jack’s nipples between his index and middle fingers slightly out of time, which has Jack alternating between bitten groans and stifled intakes of breath. 

“There we go,” Gabriel growls it right in his ear. His dick stands erect under Gabriel’s attention, a drop of pre beading that Gabriel delightedly smears against his cockhead. “Knew it wouldn’t take that much to get you up.” 

Something like  _ shame  _ burns Jack’s face and back. 

His cock throbs and Gabriel removes his hands; the shock of cold air makes Jack twitch and gulp at the loss. 

Gabriel adjusts Jack’s stance, nudging his legs wider apart; he parts Jack’s asscheeks, running a finger along the rim of his hole. He tightens on reflex and Gabriel  _ laughs,  _ the smug fucking bastard. 

“I change my mind. You were probably taking it down the throat, not up the ass. Could probably stick a lump of coal up here then get a diamond a week later.” There’s a teasing press, a blunt nail and thick finger breaching-

“Hurry up and fucking  _ kill  _ me, Reyes,” Jack spits back. He tries to squeeze his thighs together, and Gabriel slaps his ass in warning. It  _ stings _ and he can’t hold back a hiss of pain. 

Gabriel had been intending this to be the end result of his hunt the whole time, it seemed. When his fingers return to Jack’s hole, they’re cold and dripping wet. A droplet of- probably lube- rolls down his asscheek, and it tickles ever so slightly. 

One finger pushes past the ring of muscle; Jack grits his teeth and bites down on the strained whine he’d wanted to produce. It  _ hurts,  _ in an alien sort of way he can’t really explain- his body tells him that this is  _ not how this is supposed to be happening,  _ and his mind absolutely agrees.

“Jesus  _ Christ,  _ loosen up!” Gabriel snaps. “Tight-ass prick. This’ll fucking hurt both of us if you don’t unclench.” 

He doesn’t unclench. 

Gabriel persists regardless; he pushes in his intrusive finger past the first knuckle. There’s a foreign  _ wiggling  _ that Jack tries to escape by leaning forward. Gabriel’s other, unoccupied hand, clamps down on his hip in turn. Claws dig in as a  _ warning.  _

“Fuck,” Jack gasps. The splitting pain gets worse when another finger is added, and his muscles flex, clamping down. 

Gabriel snarls something reproachfully; the movement of his fingers gets quicker, more frantic, and if Jack didn’t know any better-

He freezes and there’s a sudden  _ spark  _ against his spine that makes it hard to see straight for a second. He can’t help a ragged gasp of surprise and pleasure, toes and fingers uncurling. Gabriel lets out a triumphant little snarl and his fingers move slowly, purposely, over that spot. Those sparks repeat, setting him a-quiver, Jesus  _ Christ  _ it’s  _ good  _ and he can now understand why guys say it’s not actually that  _ bad  _ to have a dick up your ass-

Lust pools in his stomach, makes his brain afuzz- his dick twitches needily, his whole body feels  _ hot,  _ and his mind is left as the last bastion that cries  _ no, no, no  _ to Gabriel’s ministrations.

“Feels good?” Gabriel leans up to growl in his ear; his fingers stop milking Jack’s prostate to spread and scissor. “I would’ve fucking done this to you if you asked. If you called me to your office and said  _ Gabriel, I need you to fuck me good,  _ I would’ve taken care of you.” His fingers brush purposely against his gland and Jack wheezes out a moan. “Even the fucking mighty goddamn  _ Strike-Commander  _ isn’t above craving a cock in his ass.”  

Gabriel held grudges for years. Death hadn’t changed that. It’d only made it so, so much worse. 

There’s a third finger added and Jack realizes that he’s been rocking slightly. Hips back and forth, less than an inch, seeking friction for his aching, weeping cock. The thought alone is enough to make him stop, and Gabriel rumbles a sound of disappointment against Jack’s neck. 

“No need to stop enjoying yourself, slut,” He seethes. “Go ahead. Fuck yourself on my fingers like you want to.” 

“No,” He  _ hates  _ how fucking wrecked his voice sounds. His guts feel tight, warm; he can feel an orgasm building, and he knows he’s not going to last through two of them. Whether or not  _ Gabriel  _ thinks that is up for debate; Jack wouldn’t put it past Gabriel to  _ wring  _ out as many orgasms as he could until Jack was climaxing dry. 

Gabriel’s fingers draw out and he purposefully wipes them off against the leg of Jack’s pants. 

The hand on Jack’s hip remains in place, but the other hand preoccupies itself. He glances back to see what kind of torture Gabriel’s got in store, and is met with the sight of Gabriel pumping his own cock. Lube, translucent and thick, slicks his skin. His dick is thick, veiny,  _ full,  _ glistening as he plays with himself. 

There’s some tiny little gasps, choked noises of  _ delight.  _ Jack’s guts twist sharply and he fucking  _ wishes  _ he could burn the sight out of his eyes, or turn off his ears. 

Gabriel takes half a minute more to work at his cock, breathing hard and fast. He guides his dick to Jack’s ass; the blunt head pokes snugly between his cheeks, and Jack takes a sharp breath, holding it tight in preparation for the stretch and the pain.

His ass is slapped again. 

“Breathe out,” Gabriel snaps. Jack doesn’t exhale and Gabriel grabs onto a handful of white hair, jerking hard. Jack makes a pained sound and Gabriel pushes in. 

Girthy. God, it’s not like having three fingers at all- he’s  _ solid  _ and  _ hot  _ and god  _ damn,  _ too big. Jack claws at the dirty warehouse floor, trying his damnedest to pull away, but there’s nowhere to  _ go.  _ Gabriel pauses when he’s halfway sheathed in Jack’s ass, delivering a sharper,  _ harder  _ slap to Jack’s cheek to curb his panic before it turns to struggling. 

“Breathe,” He directs sharply. Jack inhales, too little, too quick- Gabriel digs his nails into the meat of Jack’s thigh and he exhales. When he repeats this once or twice, Gabriel pushes the rest of the way in. 

It’s  _ overwhelming.  _

Gabriel doesn’t give him too much time to dwell on it- he starts moving. Slowly, gently at first. Rocking, forward and backward; producing low, throaty groans and labored breaths. A hand fumbles around Jack’s abdomen before finding his cock, jerking in strokes parallel to the rhythm of his hips. 

“This- wouldn’t- be-  _ happening,”  _ Gabriel breathes into his ear, the words punctuated by the slap of his hips against Jack’s ass, “If you had- just-  _ listened-  _ to me-” 

A million years ago, he and Gabriel had drawn apart over arguments that seem so  _ silly  _ now. How to run Overwatch was the biggest point of contention. There was resentment for Jack’s promotion- Gabriel originally ran their strike team and had been snubbed. It all came to a head in Switzerland, both of them died without dying. He had- foolishly, erroneously- assumed that ignoring Gabriel wouldn’t come back to bite him after the man died.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

“ _ AH-!”  _ Gabriel’s cockhead drags against his prostate and he can’t help a breathless cry. Gabriel makes it a point, on the next couple of strokes, to milk that spot. 

“You needed this,” Gabriel hisses into his ear, and he wants to tell him  _ no, no I don’t,  _ but there’s a spark of pleasure up his spine and his words become a fevered moan. Hot breath washes against the shell of Jack’s ear. “You could have  _ asked.  _ Asked- instead of-  _ making me find you.  _ I wouldn’t- have minded-  _ doing this.  _ I would’ve-  _ loved-  _ to fuck you- over your- fucking- desk.” 

“No,” He croaks. 

Gabriel ignores him- the thrusting increases intensity, deep strokes that Jack swears he can feel in his fucking  _ soul.  _

The hand wrapped around Jack’s cock speeds up; teasing the sensitive spot just under the cockhead, pumping his length and flicking his sensitive slit; a dribble of precum rolls off the spongy head and into the small pool beneath Jack’s legs. The hand on Jack’s hip leaves its crushing hold to play with one of Jack’s nipples, and it’s all  _ too much at once,  _ he can’t- 

His back arches and he throws his head up- He can’t help the warbling cry of pleasure as he finds his release. He crests a wave of ecstasy and doesn’t crash down until a few moments later, when he realizes that Gabriel  _ hasn’t stopped.  _

He twists and whines, desperate; Gabriel  _ laughs  _ delightedly against his neck. He keeps going at his punishing pace, hands flying over Jack’s oversensitive, softening cock, heedless of whimpers and struggles. Jack’s having difficulty getting breath, difficulty thinking, he wants Gabriel to  _ stop,  _ it’s too much, too  _ much- _

Gabriel thrusting gets wilder, more erratic- teeth clamp down on the side of Jack’s neck, and they shout in tandem; Jack from pain and Gabriel from pleasure. 

He can  _ feel  _ Gabriel cum inside him, like some kind of back-alley tramp. It’s warm and wet, slicking his already lube-wet insides. 

Gabriel’s hands stop working, offering Jack some relief; he doesn’t pull out, but the cock in Jack’s ass softens. 

They’re both breathing hard, with Jack’s more strained, more ragged. He trembles like he’s just run a mile, mind  _ barely  _ beginning to process what exactly it was that  _ happened  _ here. Why or how or when- 

Gabriel disengages with an audible  _ squish,  _ which makes Jack cringe.

He feels  _ filthy.  _ Drenched in sweat- some of which isn’t even his  _ own-  _ and Gabriel’s  _ semen-  _ And God, is he  _ tired.  _ A less depressive, more tactile kind of exhaustion. His muscles have stopped listening to him properly, and his body’s just about ready to give out. Three days, no sleep, three days, little food, three days, he was supposed to  _ die  _ tonight. 

But Gabriel’s tucking his cock away and there’s no shotguns to be seen. 

“I think I hate you just the slightest bit less,” Gabriel’s voice is  _ amused,  _ and Jack’s stomach twists with something vile. “Keep this up, Jack, and I might forgive you.” 

“I didn’t want this,” Jack rasps back defiantly. 

“Oh, sure. Keep up the  _ pretense  _ of not liking it, but I  _ felt  _ your dick twitch when I called you a slut. Always thought you’d like it rough.” 

He has nothing to say to that. Adamantly denying it is just going to convince Gabriel he’s correct. 

“Shame I have to kill you when I just broke you in.” Gabriel’s voice is conversational, and he looms in next to Jack. One of those shotguns appears from nowhere, and Jack squeezes his eyes shut. He’s torn between a  _ God, no, not like this _ and a  _ finally.  _

Gabriel pulls the trigger and there’s a small, mechanical click. No buckshot. No spray.

“Damn,” Gabriel drawls. “Looks like I’m out of bullets.” 

He didn’t fire a single fucking shot the whole time he was here. 

He kneels besides Jack, retrieving a key from within the folds of his cloak.

“And you overpowered me. What a goddamn shame.” 

He unlocks the cuffs. 

“I guess I have to limp on back to Talon and tell them you ran away.” 

“Don’t play  _ games,  _ Gabriel-” Jack spits. 

Gabriel pauses, halfway back to putting the key back in his cloak. 

“You’ll die when I say you do, boyscout. And you’re not dying until I get what I want.” 

“What do you want?” Jack asks, wearily. It’s not his life. Is it his body? Will he demand this-  _ take this-  _ again? 

“I want to rub it in your goddamn face. You being a fucking naive idiot turned me into this  _ thing.  _ You not  _ listening  _ to me caused Overwatch to crumble into the dirt. You  _ owe  _ me.” 

Before Jack can argue, Gabriel dissipates into a spool of smoke. 

Jack rubs his wrists, recently freed of the cuffs, and wonders if he put a clip in his pistol. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
